


wanna see you on your back with a smiley stare

by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Ass Play, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Come Marking, Dom/sub Undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Filthy, M/M, Marathon Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Scent Marking, Top Eskel (The Witcher), except eskel tucks him into bed, fisstech, geralt gets ridden hard and put away wet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25802185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: “Fisstech?”“I learned it from a succubus.”“This how you’re propositioning me these days?”“If it works.”
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 43
Kudos: 366





	wanna see you on your back with a smiley stare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hibernating with Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119000) by [Fayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet). 



> dont do drugs. this is not how they work either. but dont do them anyway.
> 
> Fayet, my dear dear friend, i tried.

[With a smiley stare...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLiGL35eS9o&list=RDDLiGL35eS9o&start_radio=1)

* * *

* * *

“Fisstech?”

“I learned it from a succubus.”

“This how you’re propositioning me these days?”

“If it works.” Eskel shrugs lazily. He’s on the edge of Geralt’s bed, watching his brother sort through his winter trunk. A pair of gloves have split at the fingertips, and Geralt makes a noise when he can see the pale flesh of his finger creaking out along the tired seams. Geralt turns his hand over, pinching the leather closed briefly before tugging the glove off and tossing it into the pile of things to be mended.

“What’ll it do to me?” Geralt tilts his head, not looking at Eskel, but there’s an offer in his exposed neckline, the way his hair parts to show his ear. Places to bite.

“Make you last.”

Geralt blows out a breath through his nose. “Don’t need any help there.” Folds a fur-lined cloak between his naked hands, running them along the mottled many-skinned pelts of so many small watery rodents. Good oily fur, keeps the lining dry.

“I know.” He does know. Geralt’s used fisstech in the more conventional method, but Eskel knows he’s never tried to wack off his dick on it.

Eskel drops back onto Geralt’s bed, not slept in yet. Geralt’s been on his knees the first night meditating, crawling along the walls and barricades looking for more cracks in the walls, not ready to put his head down anywhere pretending to be soft. Eskel wants to get him there. Strip him of not only his clothes but of his guard.

There is no more powerful moment than when his hands make Geralt’s shoulders drop their burdens.

“It made me fuck like my life depended on it,” Eskel continues.

“You were fucking a succubus. It did depend on it.”

Eskel laughs. “I’m alive and well, better for the experience.”

“That’s debatable.”

He holds up the tight wooden box, a bit of inlaid, if chipped, pearl work detailing Temerian ships on curls of ocean waves all rather innocent to the eye. Sailors have the best shit. “Couldn’t come till I was coming down. Felt out of my mind with need. Then it all kind of happened at once; felt like I orgasmed for hours.” He hums, toes curling in his boots at the memory. “Knocked me out after. Best sleep I ever had.”

“Hmm.”

“Thought you might like to try.” Eskel tucks the small box back into the inner pocket of his light cloak and tucks a hand behind his head. “Would you care to do my mending for me? You know stitching makes my eyes cross. I’d really be a poor sight if I have these scars and a cock-eye.”

Another little breath, an almost curl of a smile. “Convince Lambert when he arrives. If you don’t insinuate that he has little hands for his little prick, he might do it for you.”

Eskel grins. “I don’t like to make promises I don’t care to keep.”

But when Eskel joins him later that evening with his mending, Geralt tuts at him, just once, and jerks his chin at the pile of clothes beside him. Eskel abandons his things to Geralt’s fastidious care and instead takes out all the washing for him.

He doesn’t raise the topic of fissetch again or even of Geralt and he sharing a bed. It’s enough to have him where Eskel can see him and smell him and hear him again, even if half the time it’s like sensing a ghost in reverse. Walking through warm spots Geralt had been. Eskel, trailing his hands along stones like they’ll bleed for his touch, and Geralt will be there, bleeding too.

Vesemir announces that he saw Lambert at the base of the mountain. Four black spots. Two witches, two horses.

Must be Milos. 

Geralt prowls. Doesn’t sleep. Eskel would know. The bed still smells like a year of dust.

He washes the sheets. Rolls in them. Maybe Geralt will sleep if it’s familiar. Maybe Eskel is comfort enough.

Maybe.

“Two days from now,” Vesemir concludes, when Lambert and whatever other Witcher he has with him vanish between a pass.

Geralt comes to him that night. Eskel doesn’t put down his book when Geralt slips in after a single knock. Geralt paces the room, more dog than wolf, eyes everywhere but on Eskel. Eskel’s shaving mirror is flat on its face; good. He wouldn’t want Geralt to catch sight of himself like this.

“Yes?” Eskel finally asks, decent and kind and willing to put Geralt out of his misery.

“A succubus.”

“Want the story now?”

“Save your theatrics for when Lambert’s here to entertain.” He’s such a sorry bastard sometimes, never good for a second retelling.

Eskel tags the page he’s on and lays down the book. “I took a lot more than I’ll use on you.”

He can hear Geralt exhale, but nothing in him slightens. “What’s the dosage?”

Geralt’s skinnier from the year. But he’s not built like the rest of them, not on the inside. “Three grams.”

Geralt nods, assured by the number, by Eskel’s competnance. Not that he’d ever doubt Eskel. He starts to strip. No preamble. Just sheds his winter garb into a heap that he folds immediately, sets aside; stands as pale and dry as the moon before Eskel, some scars whiter than that, others pink like a kiss. He’s thinned in the year; he never seems to have enough coin to keep himself fed. Tempts Eskel to try to spend a year with him and see how his brother manages his finances; usually has enough coin when he gets to the keep for his contribution to general stock and supply.

Little. He looks little again. It shouldn’t make Eskel fond, but it does; the narrow wiry shape of Geralt fills the spaces of his memories, sharp cut outlines of their boyhood, blurred by the years coming back into focus.

“Hmm. Maybe two and a half grams.”

Geralt touches his twelfth ribs that float and bracket the sharp cut of his diaphragm muscle. “The last two months weren’t favorable.”

“For you.” Eskel stands and retrieves the box of fissetch. He wants to retrieve Geralt, pull him in, put hands on him - not let him up - but instead he opens the box. “Want to come first?”

Geralt crosses to Eskel’s bed. “No. Not unless this experiment breaks my dick and I won’t get to ever again.”

Eskel wonders if he says it like that on purpose. Experiment.

“Wouldn’t dream of that, Geralt.” On the desk is a tiny scale. He puts five small chips on one side; scoops with the edge of his knife the fisstech onto the other half of the scale.

“Do three grams.”

Eskel adds another chip. More fisstech. When it’s level, he transfers it to a bowl.

He kneels down between Geralt’s legs; Geralt opens his stance winder in allowance, making room for Eskel’s massive shoulders. Eskel could smell him the whole time but now it’s even heavier, familiar skin smell coating his senses.

Geralt hisses in premature anticipation for Eskel’s hands to finally breach the silent threshold of his flesh. Eskel enjoys the static shock of Geralt's contact; once upon a time, it sang to him. Geralt used to hum at the same frequency as him. Now, it's like hearing a split harmony, a foreign key. With time, he will learn the sounds of him again.

Geralt tenses at the flat sturdy touch of Eskel’s palms on his knees, a siege of sensation that makes his cock jump and his veins pop out on his skin. Raw burn arousal and nerves scent the air, an aching, malty smell. Eskel won’t take his hands off him again for the rest of the night.

“Can I kiss you?” Eskel asks, because he has to ask. Because Geralt’s got that wild-flight look already in his eyes. Because his dick is already plumping, just from Eskel’s hands.

“Not yet.”

Geralt’s touch is slow but then it’s there, a black pitch tangle of fingers in Eskel’s hair; the hair all over Eskel’s body stands to attention. The room fills up with ozone.

“When you’re fucking me, then you can.”

“I can wait till then.”

Geralt won’t let go of him either.

Eskel drops a kiss on the inner divot of Gerlat’s left knee, on a scar that, if the blow had been deeper, would have hobbled him. Geralt’s hands tighten in his hair. Eskel’s mouth is the barest static shock nip.

“That doesn't count.” Eskel kisses his thigh, dragging friction. “That doesn’t either.”

Geralt only tugs at his roots, draws Eskel’s vagabond kisses up his thigh. “Whatever you say.”

There’s no rush. He won’t rush. No need to now. Geralt’s got his hands on him and they’ll stay on him till the end. He kisses Geralt’s thigh still rigid with tension, rubs his hands up the coarse hair of his shin until it gives to something almost salt-scraped smooth. Eskel inhales the damp smell of Geralt around his groin, the crease of his hip. Geralt’s belly fills up against his forehead with a deep breath that whistles from his open mouth when Eskel mouths at his dick. A few greeting kisses and licks that Eskel can barely manage, out of breath immediately, panting for him. Geralt’s cock twitches up against his lips each time, belying all of Geralt’s pent-up need at the tender treatment.

Spit floods Eskel’s mouth. His canines throb in his gums, desire hitting him like a punch. He moans, taking Geralt all the way into his mouth, still mostly soft, still filling him to the back of the throat.

It drags a lazy “fuck,” from Geralt’s mouth, and the hands in his head pet him, callouses catching on his hair. Eskel lets him fall back from his lips, dripping with spit.

“Now then,” Eskel says quietly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and sitting back on his heels. He looks up at Geralt, excitement quickening his steady witcher heart, heat puddled in the base of his belly.

Geralt’s shoulders have eased. The petting in his hair continues.

“Now the fun part?” Geralt touches himself, pulling back the foreskin on his cock, showing off the red head of himself, vulnerable and unashamed at once. He’s only halfway there, just starting to get firm. Makes it a little easier.

“Now the fun part.” Eskel licks his finger and presses it into the fisstech. “It’ll take a couple of minutes to hit. Then it’ll be hours.”

“Alright.”

Eskel huffs with a laugh, meeting Geralt’s distantly curious eyes. “I can tell you’re on the edge of your seat with excitement.”

“Hmm.” Geralt shifts his hips forward until he teeters on the brink of falling off the bed. Eskel has to lean back to accommodate “This better?”

“Much better,” Eskel laughs, heart seizing with affection. Geralt gives him that almost smile, head tilted, like he’s leaning into the praise. “Geralt.”

A white brow lifts. The head tips the other way. Curious.

Eskel suckles Geralt’s exposed tip, wets it anew. Geralt pants out from his mouth once, watching, as Eskel dabs the fisstech onto his wetted flesh. “I’m going to take you apart.”

“Please.”

Eskel will never forget that please. Simple as a paper cut.

Geralt draws his foreskin forward, squeezing himself as the fisstech melts. After a minute for it to start, Eskel nudges Geralt’s hands away and takes Geralt’s cock into his own grip, pulling Geralt’s foreskin away from his flesh and tilting his cock up to pour the rest of the powder to nestle into his flesh. He pinches the skin over the head of Geralt, watching Geralt’s face.

He can hear his heartbeat pick up first. Then his breath - a deep one, followed by a second, too-soon breath, then it gets shallow. Geralt sighs, sucks in air, sighs again. He groans, head falling back, neck taught and gorgeous.

“Good?”

“Good. That’s good shit.” Geralt’s legs fall open, gone loose.

Eskel laughs again. “Straight from Temeria.”

“Mm.” Geralt runs his fingers through Eskel’s hair, pulling his face towards his cock. Eskel is ready for it and suckles, resenting the bitterness of the fisstech that’s slurried on his tongue. Melts down his throat. Won’t hit him the same but it’ll give him the edge he’ll need to keep atop Geralt the rest of the night, as if his willpower would ever be less than enough when it comes to Geralt.

“Get naked,” Geralt demands quietly. His hands drag on Eskel when Eskel stands. He closes his legs so his knees bracket Eskel, so they’re touching more; pushes a hand under Eskel’s shirt to press against his belly while Eskel makes quick work of tugging off his shirt. He lied - he does have to take his hands off Geralt. But the contact doesn’t break.

When Eskel’s bare from the waist up, Geralt hunches close to press his face against Eskel, touching with his lips, his nose, his eyelashes. He touches like a cat, wanting to rub whiskers into the hair of Eskel’s chest. Together, they can be plain and naked; Geralt breathes him in with an open mouth, tongue on Eskel’s skin to swallow the taste of him.

He can do whatever he wants. Take whatever he wants. Eskel will push it into his mouth for him, make him swallow it. Would spit it down his throat and hear the splash of when it hits the bottom of him.

Geralt pushes Eskel’s thick felt pants down, fingers tracing the shadowed run of iliac and femoral, tripwires of scars and hair and chaos currents like Eskel’s mapped in leylines vibrating to the frequency of Geralt’s fingertips.

Eskel tries not to shiver out of his own skin. When Geralt cups and rolls his balls and looks up at him, knowing, too damn pretty -

“Will you really make me wait to kiss you?”

The bastard smiles. “It keeps you on task.”

Eskel shoves him backwards on the bed and pounces on him. Geralt gets a knee up between them, too fast, not yet gone to syrup, not yet. But that only excites Eskel. He uses Geralt’s faux defensive leg to pivot the other witcher, rolling him sideways, then fully, hands and knees.  
Geralt stretches into the position, hair fallen over his face. His back arches, up, then down, leaning back then forward on his weight as he settles himself for this.

“I’ll make you beg,” Eskel promises him, running his hands down Geralt’s sides, raising his ass up with a hard squeeze. Funny. Geralt’s right. The promise of a kiss does keep him on task.

“Please.” Geralt looks over his shoulder at him, face blank, skin starting to build a healthy flush - but his gaze roams Eskel’s face, focus jumping between his eyes, seeking more than just eye contact. It’s less of a dare than a request when Geralt says, “Make me.”

Geralt’s insides taste like a freshly sharpened blade. Hot, metallic, something taken from deep in the earth. Something forged.

His shallow breathing grows sharp and fast as his body, his suspicious body, hits the second wave of fisstech and starts processing it further. Eskel can feel it when it happens; he’s got a finger in Geralt and a tongue on his rim, drooling on him, when Geralt groans and his head hits the pillow in front of him and his shoulders sag down. His knees slide outwards and his ass back into Eskel’s face.

Eskel pulls his finger out, fits his mouth over Geralt’s hole, and sucks. The moan that slips out of Geralt’s mouth sends a full-body flush down Eskel’s body, all the heat and blood shot to his cock so sharply it hurts.

“Fuck, pretty boy,” Eskel slurs, sticking his nose against Geralt’s ass for a moment just to smell him, then does the same thing again, sucking him into his mouth like he’ll pull his rim inside out. Geralt bucks against his face and Eskel spreads his ass wide to fuck his tongue into his hole, licking him out till Geralt thrashes and tries to get away. Eskel shoves his weight onto Geralt and holds him still, two fingers slipping into his ass to the base of the knuckle.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts, tightening on him before he goes easy again. “Eskel.”

“Begging?”

“My cock’s fucking hard.”

And Eskel just had his tongue in his ass, so that shouldn’t feel so exciting and wild to hear, but Eskel groans and nods even if Geralt’s not looking at him. Then they’re both looking at Geralt’s cock hanging heavy between his legs, and then they’re looking at each other through Geralt’s spread legs, Geralt peeking at him upside down even as he reaches to take himself in hand.

“Wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

Geralt freezes, eyes shot to black; but there are no stark veins. It’s all fisstech and lust. “Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

Because once Geralt starts pulling on his cock, he won’t want to stop. And Eskel wants to savor the slow build, slow as he’s managing when he’s itching to get inside Geralt. Besides, Geralt likes a firm hand. Needs it.

He settles back, hands fisted and tucked under the pillow.

“Stay,” Eskel says, keeping a hand on Geralt as he stands off the bed, legs a little stiff. He walks slowly, trailing his hand over Geralt’s ass, his spine, his ribs, shoulder, tracing the outline of him. Pushes his fingers into Geralt’s hair to scratch at his scalp while with his free hand he opens his nightstand to grab the camellia oil he likes for this. It’s good stuff, expensive, and most importantly, barely scented. Geralt won’t get a headache and Eskel will be able to smell how deep into Geralt’s guts he fucks his cock, not like fucking lavender.

“You splurged.” Geralt pushes his head up into Eskel’s hand, tilting - Eskel rubs the back of his neck firmly, thumb drawing a hard circle behind the bolt of his jaw where tension keeps from his clenching teeth.

“One of us has to have standards.” Geralt has ridden Eskel’s cock on nothing but spit and spite, fucking himself like it was a battle to win.

Lighthouse eyes track Eskel’s return back to bed, back to kneeling behind the readily offered flesh that’s gone rosey and sweat slickened. There’s a tremble, just barely, in Geralt’s body. He shakes it out, rolls his shoulders, watches.

Eskel works a third finger into him, eased by the oil, watching Geralt’s nostrils flare and his eyes close - snap open to stay locked on Eskel as he slowly fucks his hole. When Eskel rubs over his prostate, Geralt makes a noise and shoves his face into the pillow, canting his ass up for more.

“Does this count as fucking you?”

“No,” comes the muffled reply.

Eskel draws his fingers out to rub and tug on Geralt’s rim, playing with the heated flesh, the sight of his fingers dipping in and out of the red depth of him - the tense little stretch of Geralt’s asshole as it sucks tight over Eskel’s fat knuckles - Eskel’s rutting into the air. He fumbles one handed to pour frankly too much oil onto the back of his fingers to run into the stretched opening of Geralt’s ass.

“That’s a very narrow-minded viewpoint on fucking, Geralt.”

Geralt grumbles something into the pillow.

Eskel drives his fingers into his ass, twisting his wrist, sudden and sharp and fast. “What was that?”

Geralt gasps, head rising, back bowing - but that’s the only sound, a seizing breath. Eskel claps a hand onto Geralt’s hip, a hard little smack that he lets eke with prickling magic - Geralt clenches up so hard on his fingers it probably hurts.

“Put your cock in me,” Geralt hisses. He sits up on his knees, gripping the wrist of Eskel’s hand on his hip hard, holding the contact to his skin like with enough time and pressure, Eskel’s palm will tattoo itself into his skin.

Eskel shifts closer, keeping his fingers inside Geralt, pulsing them. Geralt arches and leans, his shoulders knocking into Eskel’s chest with a sigh as he settles into a meditative stance. Or would if he didn’t drop his head back on Eskel’s shoulder and turn his face into Eskel’s neck to bite him in a slow sink of teeth. Geralt groans like he’s hungry, releasing his jaw only to bite again, hips bucking up hard as it satisfies something to fuck the air and bite. Eskel’s fingers slip out and he’s quick to reach around to Geralt’s jutting cock.

All he does is lay his fingers on the red sticky head of Geralt’s cock and Geralt groans, butchered, biting Eskel hard enough to hurt, drooling around his teeth.

“There we go,” Eskels says softly, drunk at the sight and sound and feel of Geralt. He lightly runs his fingers down the underside of Geralt’s cock as it weeps a dribble of precome - he can smell the fisstech laying under the pungency of Geralt’s sex.

A hand flies to grip his hand, to try to force Eskel to take him in a tighter hold, to do more than tickle his fingertips like he’s teasing a virgin clit.

“You can’t come, so don’t force it,” Eskel growls. He runs his finger over the wet slit of Geralt, catching up rivels of precome.

“Great,” Geralt grunts, nipping Eskel’s ear painfully in retribution. “This better be worth it.”

Eskel sucks his finger clean, leaning slightly to peer over the side of the bed. Hmm. “One second.”

_“Unh?”_

Eskel laughs as he eases Geralt down onto his back, dopey-eyed and annoyed and restless in the confines of his skin, already itching - not quite like being hopped up on a potion, a different soaring in the gut. Geralt starts to reach for his cock again before he growls and flattens his hands down at his sides. He’s so fucking obedient. Even like this. Fuck, it makes Eskel ache. Wish Geralt would fight a little harder against things.

Geralt tracks him with a noise of curiosity when Eskel reaches over to bring up the little tin plate.

“Saw a demonstration once,” Eskel murmurs, settling between Geralt’s spread legs carefully. “Woman sucked a man till he was about to come and then - The Fisherman’s Spear.”

Geralt narrows his eyes in lazy suspicion. “Sounds ominous.”

Eskel rubs Geralt’s hip, smoothing in to rest over his diaphragm and feel those quick even breaths. “She slid a tiny oiled rod with fisstech on the end into his pissslit while he whined.” Geralt keens sympathetically. “After about a minute, drew it and his orgasm out of him. Like watching a geyser blow.”

“Thought,” Geralt frowns, “thought you can’t come on this?”

“In the first few minutes you can.”

“Don’t stick a rod in me.” There’s a clench in his jaw when he says it, a little shiver. No fight in him other than the request, asked so mildly that one could deny they ever heard it.

“Won’t. Won’t, Geralt.” He rests the plate over Geralt’s sternum - it helps him hold still. “Just gonna give you another push.” Three grams was the right call.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, given over to Eskel’s decisions. People have done enough with his body - Eskel’s always done right by him. Eskel knows; he’ll keep it that way.

There’s just enough fisstech left in the pan. He drags the back of his damp fingernail around till he gets a clean little line gathered. With his other hand, Eskel pets his way back to Geralt’s cock, pinching the silky head. A little squeeze, then he eases the flesh away from Geralt’s slit, widening the opening - Geralt sucks in a breath, palms determinedly flat on the bed, whole body coiled up again -

“I have you,” Eskel says quietly as he delicately pushes his nail into that slivered opening, grinding the fisstech into naked nerves. Geralt whines behind his closed teeth, arching into it- Eskel hums, listening, watching, rubs his finger in firm soothing circles over and over round Geralt’s slit for the minute it takes the fisstech to dissolve, straight to the source.

Geralt breaks out in goosebumps and all the air leaves him. He moans - his cock blurts out milky white precum that Eskel sucks off, tasting that drugged bitterness in him again. Geralt bucks into his mouth without a care, sloppy in the motion.

“Ah,” Geralt puffs, nods to nothing, twisting in Eskel’s bedsheets, twisting his hips up to greet Eskel’s lips. “Ah, I - see.”

“See what?”

“The future,” Geralt says stupidly, opening his eyes comically wide to impart his earnestness. His pupils are blown to full eclipses, gold irises completely gone. Won’t be coming back either.

Eskel snorts. “You’re not _that_ high.”

Geralt smiles. He even laughs, just a sighing sound, more of a pleased grunt. “I can tell you the future Eskel. I’ll tell you: I’m going to come like a geyser.”

“Idiot,” Eskel laughs, hauling Geralt’s ass into his lap. “You’re a fucking idiot, Geralt.”

“You gave the idiot fisstech. What’s that make you?”

“Also an idiot.”

“Hmm.” Geral nods again. “Fuck me already.”

“You just want a kiss,” Eskel teases. He slicks up his cock, clenching his teeth at the touch of a hand on himself. Shit. He’s gonna end up coming a few times in Geralt tonight and won’t that be a pretty thing at the end.

“Please.”

He almost doesn’t hear it. But he does. A quarter-tone begging note. Something in the air vibrates, skimming Eskel’s skin.

Geralt’s face is devoid of anything when he looks at him, just expectant blankness. But Eskel heard it. He can feel it.

Oil drips out of Geralt’s hole. Eskel spits on his hand and slicks himself, burning now, eyes tearing from Geralt’s face to the space between them. Between the prep and the fisstech, Geralt’s asshole dents in sweetly as Eskel puts pressure on him. He opens like a kiss, splitting in a hot grip that swallows the fat head of Eskel’s cock and sucks.

“Fuck,” Eskel grits, leaning his weight into Geralt and slowly goring him open. Geralt sighs with it, pleased, eyes falling shut as Eskel fills him slow inch by slow inch, easing out only to fuck in, pulled by the snug velvet clutch of Geralt’s body, the soft constriction of his muscle and his most tender flesh.

Eskel marvels. “Your body’s begging for it.”

“Knew it was good for something.” Geralt’s breathing hard, eyes shut, mouth slack, given over to being fucked. Eskel bucks his hips to settle the last inch of himself impossibly deep inside Geralt, those heavy thighs split wide over his hips. Geralt grunts, a deep noise, a noise Eskel can feel begin in Geralt’s gut with how far his dick is inside him.

His eyes open so suddenly it startles Eskel - the blackness of them is as crisp and deep as obsidian stone.

“Eskel.” Heavy hands on the back of his head draw Eskel down to rest their foreheads together. Geralt hums, rubbing his nose against Eskel’s cheek and inhaling him. “Now you’re fucking me.”

Eskel throbs inside Geralt. Can feel Geralt’s heart beating against the tip of his dick. He kisses him, chest splitting at the soft give of Geralt’s lips. Geralt opens up to him, tongue and teeth, a hungry noise rumbling out of his throat and straight down Eskel’s. Eskel trembles with it, cupping Geralt’s face, feeling the work of his jaw, the little muscles of his mouth moving under Eskel’s stroking thumb as Geralt gives him kiss after kiss, small gifts shared.

He fucks him, balls already drawn up because he waits all year for this, for Geralt, and Geralt’s buttery in his hands, too skinny this year and small enough that Eskel can cover him up with his whole body, can hide him from the world. He’s gonna leave Geralt swollen and gaping, gonna make him come so hard his balls will ache for a week. Gonna get him to shut his eyes and fall asleep for a day straight and wake up with their last brother home safe and winter piled high at the windows.

Everytime he pushes in, Geralt breathes out. His eyes fall shut when Eskel draws out and open again when Eskel’s hips meet his ass. He sucks in a sweet little gasp, like Eskel’s easing the breath in and out of his lungs, billow to the hearth of his very life. The slow pace won’t last long, it never does. Anything slow and the cageyness sets in on him. Geralt’s already moving against him, his hands tugging on Eskel’s shoulders and hair, hips rolling - but Eskel savors the time he has looking at Geralt’s face still in the easy beginnings of slow building pleasure - once Geralt hits his first would-be orgasm, it’ll be like fucking him on fire.

That’s exactly what happens.

Geralt says “harder,” cinching his legs around Eskel’s waist, a frown turning his lips. So Eskel pulls Geralt’s legs over his shoulders and bends him in half and fucks him up the bed, Geralt forced to brace himself with a hand behind his head to the wall.

Geralt shakes through a dry orgasm, cock darkening - something like pain, something like pleasure. His body tightens and trembles around Eskel and that’s enough to get Eskel to come the first time, straight down into Geralt, soaking his insides. Geralt groans and grabs for his dick, pulling on himself futilely.

That’s the first trip over the edge.

“Hours,” Eskel reminds him, flipping Geralt over onto his hands and knees. He looks down with feral pride at Geralt’s dripping asshole, puckered up neatly save for the deep rosey swell starting, smeared in white. Eskel spits down onto his crack and rubs it around, just to hear Geralt’s surly little growl.

He hooks one finger in to tug, to let more come spill out. Geralt already smells like him and it’ll only grow more potent. “Want me to leave you stuffed full when you pass out on me at the end of this? Wanna wake up still so wet you’re choking on it?”

He slides in two fingers and spreads them. His dick fills up again in a lightheaded rush, skin prickling with the race of blood and his more cohesive thoughts down to his dick. “Or eat you out real nice?”

“Want you to talk less and fuck more.”

“Fine.” Eskel gives his hole a little smack. Geralt jumps and spits a curse at him. “I’ll surprise you.”

The second push over the edge happens like that. Geralt on hands and knees and then, more face and knees as he crumples down, Eskel pounding him to a bruised up mess inside. Geralt tries to jerk himself off again, useless effort that just makes him snap his teeth and curse and shove back on Eskel’s dick like that’ll solve his building problem. But Eskel can only nail his prostate and makes him yell as good as if he’s coming - still can’t. But Eskel can, and he empties his balls into Geralt after some time.

When he pulls out, Geralt presses a hand to his hole like it’ll keep himself from leaking. Not that it’d do any good. Come bubbles out as his asshole flutters and starts to gape, and his thighs and balls are already a mess, as is the bed, first load fucked clean out and replaced with the second.

Eskel gives him a minute to feel sorry for himself before forcing Geralt onto swaying feet. Won’t let go. Geralt latches onto him and bites his shoulder, trying to drag Eskel to the floor. Looks a little contrite about it when Eskel forces a cup of water into his hand from the pitcher on the shaving table.

There’s a quiet _plat, plat,_ as Eskel’s come drips off in splatters from Geralt’s heavy balls where he’s soaked with spend.

He bends Geralt over the table next. Would break those bony hips of his if they weren’t alchemically reinforced. Bends Geralt’s leg up and opens him up wider, his pelvis hitting Geralt’s ass so hard it hurts, skin between them slapped bright, all cherry-pop red. Geralt’s cock’s trapped between wood and his belly, grinding painfully into the table’s surface, poor balls left to swing and bounce - Eskel gives them an affectionate squeeze that makes Geralt howl and grip the lip of the table hard enough to crack the wood.

Eskel grunts as he grinds into Geralt’s prostate with all the focus of a mortar and pestle. Geralt groans like he’s dying, noise emboldened by the orgasm he can’t reach, that’s locked up inside his aching cock and balls. Eskel’s third orgasm is a ways off, giving him plenty of time to tease Geralt’s prostate like this, right on it. Geralt’s spread so pretty too, his hole wide open around Eskel’s dick - when he rocks out, it flutters wildly around the head of him, pink walls hanging on - sounds nasty when he fucks back in. Geralt’s chest heaves each time; Eskel swings his hips as he fucks, hitting him with the brutal force of his body, jumping the table beneath both their combined weights until it’s cleared the length of the room and knocks into the wall with nowhere to go, just like Geralt, safely pinned beneath him.

Eskel dumps his third load of come into Geralt with great satisfaction, holding himself deep inside so it doesn’t pour out like he knows it will. Geralt’s body shivers around him, little spasms in his ass, a tremble in his one leg. Eskel eases his other leg down, rubbing hip and thigh soothingly. He can feel his own body going through a roil of chemicals and hormones, blood surge and swing. His head's clouded by cottony pleasure and determination.

“You with me?” he asks, nuzzling the back of Geralt’s sweaty neck, silver hair clinging to his equally sweaty face. He lays kisses on the skin and silver strands.

There’s a sticky wet sound as Geralt lifts his face off the table. His voice cracks. “How many hours has it been?”

Eskel rests his face between Geralt’s shoulder blades. “Maybe two.”

He gropes behind himself for Eskel’s hand and brings it around to rub his face into Eskel’s palm, scraping his teeth pleasantly over a scar slashed across the middle of Eskel’s hand. He kisses the center of Eskel’s palm. Bites the webbing of his thumb when Eskel finally eases out of his ass.

Eskel skims two fingers down Geralt’s crack for a critical assessment, groaning appreciatively at the puffiness. He has to look

“Fucking ruining you,” he tells Geralt, darkly delighted. He rubs both of Geralt’s cheeks before spreading them and him, watching his seed run freely from his gaping hole, fuck-swollen and deliciously pink. “You wait all year for me to do this to you?”

Geralt shivers as the cool air of the room breezes _inside_ of him. His gut swoops at being held so _open_. “Talk less.”

“M’admiring my work.” He goes to his knees behind Geralt, licking into him, Geralt’s gasp music to his ears, the taste of his own come mixed with the metallic and clay taste of Geralt’s insides laying thick and heavy on his tongue. There’s no point in cleaning him up, but the already inflamed skin of Geralt’s ass deserves a little soothing.

If only Geralt let him.

“Get on the floor, Eskel.”

They tumble together onto the big bearskin in front of the small fireplace, the air warm, smoke clinging to sweaty skin, all of Kaer Morhen’s perpetual chill lost before the little space. Geralt rides him like it’s a punishment to them both, grunting deeply with his effort, nails bitten into Eskel’s chest for purchase. Geralt’s hole is raw and sloppy, so easy now Geralt’s falling himself up and down on Eskel’s cock, no resistance, bouncing at a tongue-lolling gallop on Eskel’s hips. Eskel thinks about those split open gloves Geralt had worn the other day, about broken seams and flesh peeking through - if he’d asked before Geralt was this deep into the fisstech, he’d suggest fucking his fist into Geralt, break him gently on a sword hand like poetry - then - absurd thoughts about fucking Geralt all the way into his throat. Geralt, so worn to Eskel’s shape, made for Eskel, he wouldn’t be able to stand without Eskel’s cock holding him upright.

He’d crawl inside him if he could. Bury his cock in Geralt and die right there.

It’s obvious Geralt’s trying to get Eskel to come, the only gratification he can get in the moment sourced from Eskel’s pleasure, from the achievement of being filled up, of soaking his guts like it’ll flush the drug from his veins. But Eskel’s at his own limit without a fisstech inducement and won’t be blowing anytime soon. It only frustrates Geralt, who bites and kisses him with demand, rocking so fast and hard that the fiction burns through the sloppy come slicked inside Geralt’s channel till it starts dragging his skin out with each thrust. Eskel’s stomach and crotch are a mess of everything that’s been fucked back out of Geralt, sex reeking on the right side of good.

Eskel drops a hand onto Geralt’s purpled cock; Geralt throws his head back, body bowing so hard Eskel worries he’ll break. Geralt’s cock swells even more, if possible, spitting a pitiful stream of precome and straining as his balls clench up against his body; he shakes through another drug-blocked orgasm like he’s in the throws of a curse - wails up through his throat, all the veins on his body standing out, the tendons strung to snapped chords. Eskel strokes his cock, hissing in pain as Geralt clenches too-tight around him, rim seizing up like it’ll slice Eskel right off at the root.

“Fuck,” Geralt cries brokenly, nails raking down Eskel’s chest, drawing blood. Eskel curls up with it, determined, jerking Geralt until he goes through the sensation of his failed orgasm and starts humping down again wildly, hands braced back on Eskel’s thighs, hips working towards something and nothing.

It’d been perverse curiosity that made him fuck a succubus, a dangerous game even for a witcher. But with fisstech fueling him and holding him back, he’d worn the succubus down, made her come herself silly and kept him from getting the life sucked out of him. She very kindly accepted his one impossible good bone-melting orgasm and let him sleep soundly and wake up sticky and so worn out he’d done no more than eat, buy another night, and sleep the second day away.

Geralts fucking himself mindlessly on Eskel at this point, hand on his own dick, eyes shut and brow furrowed as he works himself through the fisstech.

Eskel just has to hang on.

Let himself watch. Look. Geralt’s always a sight. He’s always taking up all of Eskel’s view - sun, moon, eclipse. Goddamn fallen star. His beautiful, battle-mottled body. The bone of his hair. That face that just made his otherness all the more tragic, a face meant to be kissed; the heavy brooding thoughts and the wariness and flatness that takes over his expression too often now. Even when Geralt’s right in front of him, it’s like looking at him from miles away. Eskel fucks him like he’s trying to find a memory buried and forgotten in the dark of Geralt’s organs. If Geralt lets him try long enough, hard enough, maybe he’ll knock it loose.

He comes in Geralt a fourth time with Geralt in his lap and Geralt’s teeth buried in his shoulder. A scar he won’t mind. Geralt has him pinned to the floor, his wrists locked in a strangling hold. Eskel’s cock falls heavy and wet from Geralt, tugging free of his swollen rim with a pop. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. He grinds against Eskel’s stomach, dragging his cock in the mess he’s made, rumbling with every breath.

“Shit,” Eskel jerks when Geralt sits back down and guides Eskel back inside his searing body. Eskel grimaces at the needle knitwork of oversensitized pain. “Give me a minute.”

“No.” Geralt bites the other side of his neck and flattens out over him. “I’m close.”

It’s cheating to use magic but Eskel does anyway. Grinds his teeth and flares up with it. Geralt hisses as it pricks through his skin and right to his nerves, breaking his grip on Eskel - Eskel shoves up and topples Geralt onto his back, pinning him in return.

“I’ll suck you,” Eskel promises, pushing between Geralt's wobbly legs. “Fuck my face. You can let go.”

“Eskel.” Geralt’s head hits the floor, gnashing his teeth. His eyes open, gaze wet with frustration - his eyes rove the room, helpless in the raging lustful mire that holds his body in a relentless clutch. “I don’t -,” he bucks into the air, the drive in him stronger than Eskel’s hands trying to hold him down, “I’ll hurt you if you do.”

“Then hurt me.”

Geralt shakes his head, dragging Eskel in to meet him for a kiss. “Idiot.” He sucks in a sharp breath when Eskel’s thigh rubs between his legs, smacking his head back against the floor once more, harder this time. “Fuck - fuck, I’m- Eskel!”

Tweaking Geralt’s nipple as brief distraction, Eskel slips down his body and fits his mouth over the head of Geralt’s searing hot cock. Geralt lifts off the floor, seeking heat, seeking wet, seething at the trick even as he moans in gratitude at the service. Service. As if Eskel’s isn’t gagging for it. Geralt’s legs shake wildly, so even his rough attempts of rutting down Eskel’s throat fall weak. It’s easy to pull one of Geralt’s legs over his shoulder, destabilizing him, and baring him down to the floor once more.

The fear would be valid if Geralt was fucking anyone but Eskel. Geralt’s hand knots sharply in Eskel’s hair, pulling viciously, and the moment his cock plunges the entire length down Eskel’s throat, Geralt bares his teeth victoriously, holding Eskel’s face to his pubic hair while he rides the choking spasms of Eskel’s tight throat for as long as he can . But with Geralt’s leg hiked over his shoulder, Eskel bends him backwards, rolls him free- gasps for air, panting around his own grin as thick spit and precome drips freely from his mouth like he’s a slavering beast.

Eskel wipes his face off on the inside of Geralt’s sticky thigh, clearing his throat around a smirk. “Too little to hurt me like that.”

Geralt blinks through an angry little face until something stunned, struck dumb - some fractured piece of him shines out. Eskel kisses him, it, the softness, before it disappears again. Slides his cock into Geralt even though he feels like he’s fucked himself raw inside him already. Geralt shudders, loose walls clamping up around him before his body melts around Eskel.

They both grunt with each thrust, not enough to drown out the sound of their bodies joining like wet blankets. Eskel won’t come, he can’t possibly come again - his balls feel wrung out and Geralt? He’s not even there anymore, gasping for each breath, rocking in time with Eskel’s thrusts, using his one foot for leverage but otherwise allowing himself to be slowly and devastating fucked, languid in Eskel’s arms, heart racing in his chest, skipping, racing again - Eskel tilts his head to hear it above all else.

It’s backbreaking when he begs for “harder” and “more” and those quiet, barely there slips of “please” that would resurrect Eskel from the grave if ever prayed over his body.

“I need-”

Eskel sucks a finger into his mouth and pushes it in alongside his dick at the same time he starts stripping Geralt’s cock -

Comes like a geyser.

Geralt starts to cry out and it cuts off with a strangled gasp and then he’s just there, arching off the floor, stiff as anything, cock gushing come. The tight rigor of Geralt's pleasure pushes out the finger, and it’s only his own masochism that has him keep his cock in Geralt’s body as it throbs in clench after clench as Geralt’s orgasm drags on and on well past what Eskel’s ever seen from him.

His eyes are open, but Eskel knows he’s not seeing anything but stars, but neon white. The brutal nakedness of it, the ripe smell of come that splashes up over his chest, all the way up onto his own face - Eskel pumps him, fist flying, hand soaked. He wants to wring every drop from Geralt. Cups his balls and rubs them, petting their sore weight - Geralt whimpers, twisting up again, a slower pulse of come spilling over Eskel’s fingers. The tension starts to leave him even as his cock continues to come, twitching and shocky as Eskel rubs him through ever jolt and pulse.

He’s so busy marvelling at Geralt’s dick, he fails to notice that Geralt’s got a loopy little smile on his face, caught between ugly exhaustion and black-out bliss.

“Told you.” The words barely crawl out of Geralt’s throat but they snap Eskel’s attention to his face; he huffs fondly at the sight.

“Told me what?”

Geralt arches again in a groaning stretch before going fantastically limp, eyes closing. “The future.”

Eskel shakes off his dripping hand. “I’ll say.”

The laugh in Geralt’s mouth puffs away in a dreamy sigh as his panting finally slows, grows deep and steady. He’s filthy, nakeder than anything, left shattered and broken from the throws of his own pleasure, the orgasm a monster he conquered on a dying breath, left akimbo in the aftermath. Even for someone as nasty as Eskel, the joking prospect of licking Geralt clean taunts him with the sheer impossibility.

Still - the sight gnaws and devours him. Geralt’s shimmering, firelit, heathen god of pleasure and devotee all at once; he’s sleeping, a gentle rhythm of lungs and heart ; he’s soft, made soft. Eskel prowls over him, settling his weight gently atop Geralt, pasting himself into the wet undeniable remains of his prolonged ecstasy. Geralt’s spread open for him, so Eskel slips his aching cock back inside of him. Geralt hums, eyes opening once, unseeing, new gold, before they close; his mouth slackens in temptation.

Eskel kisses him. Holds Geralt’s face with his dirty hands and kisses him, unseen, barely felt, a memory out of reach.

Geralt wakes up clean and in bed. There’s noise. There’s warmth. He’s not paralyzed, a fear that overtakes him immediately with how disconnected he feels from his own body - no pain, no anything - just - he’s awake and he’s looking at Eskel kneeling by the fire rolling up the bearskin rug.

He shivers. Vaguely recalls Eskel asking if he wanted to wake up clean or dirty. Must have taken pity on him. It’s a blur after the...after the table. The fireplace. Eskel. Eskel.

Coming for hours. The fisstech leaving his blood in a sudden fizzy euphoria, the trigger; how his veins had throbbed and throbbed under his skin, alive and dying ten times before everything rushed him - a concussive blow.

He sounds like he just clawed himself out of his own grave, voice unburying from his throat. “What’re you doing?”

Eskel glances at him, sharp-eyed as he measures Geralt’s consciousness. “Swapping my rug out for the one in Lambert’s room before he gets here.”

“Dumbass.” Geralt closes his eyes. Lambert will smell the filth of them on that before he even opens his door; great. That’ll be the first fight of the winter. Geralt means to tell Eskel as much but he’s already asleep before he can try.

He means to say thank you. But he’s asleep again. He means to say thank you. He’s asleep in Eskel’s bed; Eskel hears it anyway, carding his hand through Geralt’s hair as he passes him on the way out of the room.

Lambert and Milos laugh uproariously at the succubus story, the fisstech, the perversion and the endurance and the sheer dick-swinging cock-assery of Eskel’s shenanigans, calling bullshit and asking too many questions with a curious glint and bravo’d declarations of their own potential in such an exploit. Geralt only hums into his white gull, rumpled from hours of sleep, legs sprawled wide.


End file.
